


The Official Story

by edna_blackadder



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya venture deep into the taiga in search of Dr. Aleksei Pavlovich Vasin, a physicist and former mentor of Illya's who is believed to be on the run from THRUSH.  All is not as it seems, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Official Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for open_channel_d for Down the Chimney Affair 2014. (Tell me who you are on AO3 and I'll add you as a recipient.) As a prompt, I had this stunning winter forest image: http://muncle.livejournal.com/1023212.html?thread=8009964#t8009964 . Thanks to vysila for running this exchange and also for betaing and reassurances. Thanks to sarcasticsra for betaing as well. :)

Napoleon shook his head as he took in the sight of the car, its red paint just barely discernible under heaps of snow. Two weeks gone, and two hundred miles from any possible source of food or fuel. As much as he would have liked to hope otherwise, he knew full well that no one could survive that. “I'm sorry,” he said to Illya.

Illya did not look at him. “It isn't right,” he said, and Napoleon raised an eyebrow. He had expected some sort of swallowed grief, perhaps almost perfectly masked by sarcasm, but he had never known Illya to display this sort of childlike anger.

“Do you need a moment alone?” he asked, unsure of what to say.

Illya shook his head. “That's not what I meant. Now that we are safely far away from all interested parties, I can tell you what has been troubling me. Nothing about this is right.'

“How so?” asked Napoleon. He had hardly failed to notice that something had been troubling Illya, but when an affair was personal, that was only to be expected. Had it been someone Napoleon knew, he would certainly have gone quiet.

“The official story, as we have had it from everyone from Mr. Waverly to the premier of the Soviet Union, is that Dr. Vasin went on the run because he refused to allow THRUSH to co-opt his research,” said Illya with frustration. “THRUSH agents had offered him all manner of extravagant payment, but he loved his country. He chose death over treason, and he has died a hero.”

“And what part of that doesn't add up for you?”

“All of it,” said Illya. “Or nearly all. THRUSH coming after him would not surprise me, but that is as far as I can suspend my disbelief. Aleksei Pavlovich was no secret capitalist, but he was hardly the picture of patriotic fervor. More to the point, he was not an idiot. The man I knew would have gone to the authorities, not driven into the taiga to be memorialized in snow and story.”

“Perhaps THRUSH had a man on the inside, or managed to convince him that they did,” suggested Napoleon.

Illya shook his head. “In that case, he would have contacted me personally.” Seeing Napoleon's expression, he added, “Don't look so astonished. The university was known to be an agents' launching point.”

“And you were his star student,” said Napoleon, allowing the barest hint of humor to seep into his tone.

“Quite right,” said Illya, without amusement. “As you can see, the official story has got to be just that. As I see it, there are two possibilities. The first is that Dr. Aleksei Pavlovich Vasin has been murdered. His killer drove out here to dump the body, and then returned by some different mode of transport. The second is that whether he is alive or dead, this was never, or only ever nominally, about Aleksei Pavlovich, and the actual targets are you and I.”

“Now that,” said Napoleon, “is something you really ought to have shared with me on the train, or at least in the helicopter.”

“That damned Gorbunkov was with us the whole way,” said Illya, “and for all I know, he is behind it. He always was academically jealous of me.”

“Well,” said Napoleon, “I suppose we'll have to have a snowball fight.” _Here's to you, Dr. Vasin,_ he thought as he packed a heavy snowball and aimed it at the door handle. He braced himself and threw it, and then he and Illya flattened themselves against the ground, sinking deeply into the powder.

There was a light thud, but no explosion. They waited, the cold chafing their exposed faces, but still, nothing.

“Let me try,” said Illya finally, standing up and brushing himself off. He picked up a tree branch and hurled it at the car door, then dived back onto the ground. There was a resounding clank, but the car remained intact.

After a minute or so, Napoleon stood up. “I'm ready to try just opening it,” he said, addressing the part of Illya's hair.

Illya groaned, not looking up. “All right, but cover your hands with snow. It could be wired for body heat. And don't sit down before checking for a bomb underneath.”

Napoleon hesitated. “Don't you want to do it?”

At that, Illya stood up gingerly. “Not particularly, but I suppose I ought to.” His face and hands, Napoleon noted, were a disturbing shade of red. He trudged over to the car, dutifully followed his own advice, and attempted to open the door, only to find it frozen shut. He groaned, then took several steps back, withdrew his Special, and shot out the lock. When, again, no explosion occurred, he pulled the door open. “It's all right,” he called after a moment. “It's completely empty. So much for the martyr's tomb.”

Napoleon followed, shivering more than he would have liked to admit. Indeed the car was empty of wayward physicists, but there was something stuffed under the driver's seat. He bent down to check for a bomb and saw none, but they couldn't be too careful. Napoleon broke an icicle off the roof and tossed it onto the seat, then grabbed Illya and tackled him.

Again, there was no explosion, and after a moment Napoleon became aware that he was holding Illya precisely as he might hold a lover, and that Illya was breathing rapidly. He started at the thought, accidentally nosing Illya's temple in the process. They could wait another moment, he thought, and he made no move to get up.

“You might have warned me,” said Illya at last. His tone was cross, but his words had come several telling beats too late. He squirmed out of Napoleon's grip, and they both righted themselves once more. “What did you see?”

“A stack of papers, I think,” said Napoleon. “Dr. Vasin may not have taken his research to his grave, but I think he tried to give it one of its own.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Let me take a look,” he said, reaching over to extricate the papers. He scanned a few pages furtively. Napoleon awkwardly tried to read over his shoulder, but soon gave up. Not only was Illya going through them far too quickly, he'd always struggled with Cyrillic cursive. Why they felt the need to turn small _t_ s into _m_ s, he would never understand.

“Yes,” said Illya at last. “They're definitely his.”

“Which begs the question,” said Napoleon, “of how the THRUSH agents pursuing him could have missed them.”

“Yes,” said Illya, “that is concerning.”

“Well,” said Napoleon, “we will of course have to do a more in-depth search, but in the meantime we'd better call a cab.”

Illya nodded, unzipped one coat and then another halfway, and took his pen from his jacket pocket. “Open Channel D—” he started, and then he froze in horror. It was an ordinary pen.

Visibly panicking, he felt his pocket again, and then his shirt pocket, and the pockets of his coats and trousers, to no avail. Napoleon reached into his own pockets with a sinking feeling, and he, too, came up with only a fountain pen. It was of a most elegant design, but completely useless for contacting HQ.

“The only person who could have done this,” said Illya, his voice trembling with anger, “is Gorbunkov. I knew he was not to be trusted.”

“We'll just have to wait for a search and rescue party,” said Napoleon, wishing he could muster up a bit more certainty.

“And how long will that take?” said Illya, his voice low with fury. “Look at us. We're already freezing to death.”

“Mr. Waverly said he would want to hear from us within an hour of arrival,” said Napoleon. He checked his watch; only twenty minutes had elapsed.

“And even if he sends someone out right away, it could take our rescuers another two hours to reach us. In just ten minutes we could develop frostbite.”

“We mustn't give up hope,” said Napoleon firmly. “Let's start by getting out of the wind.”

“Why,” said Illya, as he climbed into the car, “do I feel as though I am playing exactly into someone's hands?”

“We've just got to figure out what the game is,” said Napoleon, shutting the door behind them. “Let's think about what we do know. THRUSH came after Dr. Vasin for his research, and he vanished into the taiga. Two weeks later, his car is found abandoned in a snowbank. Contrary to the official story, he's not in the car, but he's left his papers behind.”

“And not especially well-hidden,” added Illya, “which means that either the THRUSH agents pursuing him were spectacularly incompetent, or they were killed while giving chase.”

“And in the latter event, THRUSH never bothered to send reinforcements, yet someone went to the trouble of making sure that we would be trapped here.”

“Not someone,” said Illya. “We know who. Gorbunkov did that. He's probably been with THRUSH for years, his professorship merely a cover.”

“I understand that you dislike the man,” said Napoleon, “but when would he have had the opportunity?”

“At the inn in Omsk,” said Illya. “Most likely while we slept.”

“We did lock the door,” said Napoleon, “but I can see where such an old lock might not have been especially reliable.”

“I was so tired after dinner last night,” said Illya. “I thought it was merely the usual exhaustion that accompanies a long travel day. Now I am convinced that he gave us a mild sedative.”

Napoleon considered that. He, too, had been inordinately tired, and he had written it off for much the same reason. “That's possible,” he said carefully, “but by that logic, it needn't have been Gorbunkov specifically. It could have been the helicopter pilot, or anyone at the inn.”

“What motives would any of them have had?” said Illya impatiently, shivering violently with cold and irritation. “If you're going to insist on playing Devil's advocate, save it for when the Devil has at least some semblance of an alibi.”

Napoleon shook his head. “I'm not playing Devil's advocate,” he said, through chattering teeth. “I'm trying to understand my partner.”

Illya glared at him. “I'd rather you just kept moving. You can understand me later, if we survive.”

Napoleon glared back, but only for a second. Illya was right; they did have to keep moving. _Or,_ suggested a part of his brain that, he would freely admit, was never quite turned off, _they could try certain other methods of keeping warm._ Napoleon recalled the agonizing sensations that had run through his body earlier, his lips all but touching Illya's cheek, his—

He swallowed and forced himself back to reality. Sure he was wearing ridiculous amounts of clothing, but if he allowed himself to think about where that part had been, there was still a chance that Illya might notice. Instead, he concentrated on trying to pull one of the back seats down. “Have you got a knife?” he asked Illya, who was rummaging around the glove compartment.

“Actually, yes,” said Illya, with evident surprise. “I just came across one.”

“Could you pass it back to me, please? I'm going to try to cut my way into the trunk.”

Illya wordlessly handed him the knife, and Napoleon set about his task. Even with his hands shaking, it didn't take anywhere near as long as he had expected or hoped.

He reached into the trunk and caught hold of something. He pulled it out, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Illya,” said Napoleon, “you'll want to come here.”

Illya turned around, and Napoleon smiled as he watched a caustic comment form and die on his lips. “Blankets?” he said incredulously.

“And you just happened to find a knife, the better to get at them,” said Napoleon. “We're not meant to die here, Illya. We're just meant to stay until we understand.”

“I do understand,” said Illya. “Dr. Aleksei Pavlovich Vasin, once a great physicist, has cracked under the strain of overwork, imagined himself and his research to be a target of THRUSH, and disappeared into the taiga. He will be spotted six months from now dancing naked in central Novosibirsk, and you and I will have long since perished not from cold but from hunger, victims of his tragic breakdown.”

Napoleon shook his head, his eyes light with amusement. “You do your teacher a grave injustice, Illya. Now come here and get under these blankets.”

Illya looked resentful, but he was shivering too badly to argue, so he climbed into the backseat and joined Napoleon under the blankets. Napoleon, who was just starting to regain the tiniest modicum of feeling in his body, started at how cold Illya was. Resolutely ignoring his mind's instinctive suggestions of various ways he could solve that problem, he settled for simply wrapping an arm around him, maintaining, he hoped, both plausible deniability and practicality. He squeezed Illya's shoulder, in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Illya still shuddered, looking up with either revulsion or fear. “I'm not a woman,” he said, and that was perhaps the last thing Napoleon would have expected.

“No,” he said lightly, “you're not, are you.”

“What I mean,” said Illya, “is that there's no need for this sort of thing.”

“What, keeping you alive?” asked Napoleon, trying to conceal how hurt he actually was.

“Treating me as you would an innocent girl.”

Napoleon bit his lip. “I wasn't aware that I was. You're the scientist; aren't we supposed to huddle together for warmth?”

“Huddle together, yes. Implicitly invite me to warm my frozen nose by burying my face in your neck, not so much.”

Napoleon stiffened. “I think,” he said, with deliberate coolness, “that you may be projecting a bit there, Illya. Has that been a fantasy of yours for some time?”

“No,” Illya retorted. “In my fantasies, I have heat.” Illya's tone was defiant, but for a fraction of second, there had been pure terror in his eyes. Napoleon had not missed that, and it meant that his suspicion of some years now was, at least, not entirely without basis.

“I'm sorry,” he said, contrite. “That was harsh, and uncalled for. You should know,” he said, pausing momentarily for breath, “that it wouldn't bother me.”

“You have lost me,” said Illya, but he had lost his ability to lie effectively.

“I mean,” said Napoleon, clearing his throat awkwardly, “if your, ah, fantasies run in that general direction. That wouldn't bother me.”

“How very progressive of you,” said Illya, “or egotistical, as the case may be.”

“I'm trying to be kind, and you're making it very difficult,” said Napoleon, and Illya laughed bitterly.

“If you have to try, perhaps you should give it up,” he said, and Napoleon wanted to take offense, but still, it wasn't a proper denial, nor had his last insult been. He shook his head.

“If I'm wrong, feel free to spell it out,” he said cautiously.

“It wouldn't bother me,” said Illya, “if for a lack of women, your usual impure thoughts have turned in my direction. But don't try to seduce me, it's just insulting.”

“Why would you think,” asked Napoleon, “that I would necessarily need to be isolated from women in order to have impure thoughts about you?”

Illya laughed again, still with no evidence of genuine amusement. “The number of times you have previously tried to seduce me would seem a good indication. What was it again? Oh, yes: zero.”

“As far as I can tell, the grand total is zero still,” said Napoleon.

“If you want to have sex as a means of keeping warm, I'll go along with it,” said Illya, “and dutifully never mention it again when we've finished. But I must object in the most strenuous terms to your treating it as anything but a scientific exercise, when years of inaction have made it clear that you feel nothing for me and are, at best, experiencing the sort of situational fluidity that comes with a drastic change of circumstances.”

“You know,” said Napoleon, “for such a brilliant mind, sometimes you are incredibly dense. If I were to tell you that my previous inaction was born out of uncertainty rather than a lack of feeling, would you still object so strongly to my slightest display of tenderness towards you?”

To his surprise, Illya smiled. “I think, perhaps, it is you who are dense. If you have been so uncertain for so long, then I am a much more accomplished actor than I would have ever believed myself to be.”

Napoleon grinned. “Of course you are. You're an UNCLE agent.”

“Yes,” said Illya, “as are you, and that would generally imply that we are men of action, would it not?”

Napoleon laughed. “So we're incompetent. We'll just have to improve.” He dared to lean in closer, saw desire in Illya's eyes, and kissed him. Illya's mouth opened automatically and Napoleon deepened the kiss, placing one hand on Illya's cheek and the other on his thigh, urging him closer.

It was awkward at first, mainly because of how many layers they both had on, but under multiple blankets they had both begun to feel, if not precisely warm, at least no longer in imminent danger of death by hypothermia. Napoleon pressed Illya against the seat and straddled his lap, and Illya buried his hands in Napoleon's hair, kissing him with a desperate passion that could never be mistaken for scientific curiosity. Napoleon tossed Illya's scarf aside, then unzipped his heavy coat, and then the lighter one he wore underneath. He lowered his mouth to Illya's neck and explored his chest with his hands. _Tell me,_ he thought, _that I feel nothing for you._ He reached into Illya's pants with one hand, frustrated as he wrestled with multiple layers there as well, but there was no mistaking that Illya was hard as a rock. He gasped at Napoleon's touch, but soon recovered and managed to shove one of his hands down Napoleon's pants, and Napoleon's knees buckled.

They both came quickly, and if Napoleon was honest, that was a relief. Some other time, with a proper bed at their disposal, they could do better. Which reminded him, through the haze of satisfaction, that there was still a puzzle to solve if they ever hoped to get to that point. He cleaned himself with a tissue and offered one to Illya, then lay down on his back and gently pulled Illya down with him, so that his own head rested against the door and Illya's against his chest. He wrapped an arm across Illya's back, and this time the latter did not protest, but gave a contented sigh.

As to the puzzle, he was fairly certain he'd worked out the basic idea of it. But he would need more information, which only Illya could provide.

“Illya,” he said, “you've got to tell me more about Dr. Vasin and Gorbunkov.”

Illya groaned. “I realize that I asked not to be romanced, but even I have higher standards for pillow talk than that.”

Napoleon laughed. “Nonetheless, if you ever want to be reunited with an actual pillow, you'll have to tell me a lot more than you have.”

“Dr. Aleksei Pavlovich Vasin was, at the time, one of the most highly regarded minds in his field,” said Illya wearily. “I came to the university specifically to study under him, as did Gorbunkov. We were his star pupils, but my work was always a little better, just enough to where Gorbunkov developed a seething hatred for me. I have already told you all of this.”

“So you believe Gorbunkov hated you,” said Napoleon, “entirely because he could never quite match you in Dr. Vasin's eyes.”

Illya nodded. “He was no slouch, but I was better. He did go on to become a professor himself.”

“At the very same university, in fact, becoming Dr. Vasin's colleague. Whereas you disappeared for the Sorbonne, Cambridge, and eventually UNCLE. How well would you say you keep up with your field, Dr. Kuryakin?”

Illya sighed. “I read certain journals regularly, but it has been five years since I last contributed an article.”

“Be honest, now,” said Napoleon. “Would you say it was ever your intention to remain in academia?”

Illya shook his head. “Hardly. I am proud of some of the work that I did, but it does not excite me as fieldwork does. I have thought vaguely that I might be more appreciative of it as a second career, should I live to retire from the field.”

“Whereas Dr. Gorbunkov,” said Napoleon, “could never imagine himself doing anything else. Naturally, the mere idea of you would irritate him. He would work so hard, slaving for the approval of the teacher he idolized, and then you would show him up, having barely lifted a finger.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, that is more or less the shape of it. As I have said, he was academically jealous of me. That would seem a petty reason for him to have thrown in his lot with THRUSH, but I have seen pettier.”

“Tell me,” said Napoleon, “were you equally competitive? I mean, did you see Gorbunkov as a rival in the same way, or was it only he who was determined to outperform you?”

“I didn't like him,” said Illya, “so naturally I took some delight in doing better, but not to the obsessive extent that he did. Success in my work was its own reward; embarrassing Gorbunkov was a bonus point.”

“Did the two of you compete over anything else? Women, for example? Or was your rivalry focused only on Dr. Vasin's favor?”

Illya shook his head. “It was purely about quantum physics.”

“Quantum physics,” said Napoleon, “or Dr. Vasin?”

Illya looked up, startled. “Are you trying to ask if he came on to us?”

“Well, did he? I did find it odd that his file never mentioned a wife.”

“No,” said Illya firmly. “And not, I should add, for any lack of opportunity. I visited his house many times, and drank with him and other students, and not once did he try anything. It would never have occurred to me that he might.”

“Perhaps not to you,” said Napoleon. “But what about Gorbunkov? Would the thought have occurred to him?”

“Don't ask me to read his mind; it would make an incredibly pedestrian tome,” said Illya irritably. He shifted in Napoleon's arms. “Tell me, how do you manage to make everything about sex?”

“Upon completing his studies, Gorbunkov opts to stay right where he is,” said Napoleon aggressively. “I'll admit to knowing little about academic politics, but that's not common practice, is it? He earns his doctorate and accepts a teaching position alongside Dr. Vasin. He never marries, also uncommon practice, and devotes his life entirely to his work, colleague to the man who had once been his mentor and idol.” Napoleon paused, then added, “I, too, suspected Gorbunkov. I suspected him as soon as it became clear that THRUSH was never involved. Linking Dr. Vasin's disappearance to them was merely a ruse to ensure that UNCLE would investigate it. Specifically, that you would be the one to conduct the investigation.”

Illya nodded. “The point was clearly to bring us here. But I don't see how that necessarily exonerates THRUSH, nor what it has to do with Gorbunkov's proclivities.”

“Perhaps nothing,” said Napoleon, “or, perhaps, everything. On the whole, I see two possiblities. The first is that Gorbunkov, seeking to even an old score, killed Dr. Vasin and drove out here to dump the body and set the trap. He then blamed Dr. Vasin's disappearance on THRUSH, so that UNCLE would send you, his hated rival, to investigate. He then proceeded to drug us, confiscate our communicators, and leave us here to die.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” said Illya, but without much feeling.

“The problem with this theory,” said Napoleon, “as I'm sure you can see, is that we are, at present, looking highly likely to survive. If Gorbunkov meant to kill us, why didn't he wire the car to explode? Even if he was counting on the legendary Siberian winter to do his work for him, he must have known his window was limited. When we fail to check in with Mr. Waverly as promised, he will send a search party. Gorbunkov would need us to be dead within three hours. How, then, could he be so careless as to leave blankets in the trunk, and a knife to cut it open?”

“I never said he was intelligent,” said Illya, and Napoleon laughed. He ruffled Illya's hair, and then continued.

“Unless Gorbunkov is the sort of madman who likes to play with his food before eating it,” he said, “I think all the evidence points in favor of my other theory.”

“And what is that?”

“That we are being held here not out of malice, but because Drs. Vasin and Gorbunkov want something from us,” said Napoleon triumphantly.

At that, Illya sat up straight, leaving Napoleon's chest cold. “Vasin and Gorbunkov?”

Napoleon sat up too, with some difficulty. “I think Dr. Vasin is very much alive, and they are in this together. They needed us to investigate because they knew you would be the first to question the official story if you read it in the newspapers. If you launched your own independent investigation, you might unravel everything. They need you on their side pre-emptively. They need you to swear to Mr. Waverly and the premier that the official story is the only story, precisely because you would be, and were, the first to disbelieve.”

“Then they should know,” said Illya, “that I take far more kindly to bribes than to being lured into the frozen taiga.”

“As to what, exactly, they want covered up,” Napoleon went on, “I can only guess. But they must know you would never voluntarily assist them with an evil scheme, and they must think there is a good chance you will agree, because they have already bypassed the option of blackmail. If their case were entirely unsympathetic, their best course would have been to hold me hostage at the inn, my vital signs contingent upon your cooperation.”

Illya's expression, Napoleon realized belatedly, had turned stone cold. “So whatever it is, they truly think it is something I would consider so noble as to be worth lying to the faces of the premier and Mr. Waverly,” he said furiously. “The former might well be considered treason. What on Earth makes them think I would do that, for any reason?”

“Illya—” Napoleon began, but Illya was, evidently, only just getting started.

“I realize,” he said, his face burning with anger, “that I might be considered to have made my choice. I have spent much of my adult life in the West. I volunteered for UNCLE, and I do not see myself ever leaving it. When I die, it will be either in the line of duty, or in my bed in Manhattan. UNCLE is where my talents are best used, and I will even go so far as to admit that I enjoy my life in New York and that it is my heart's desire to remain there. Many Russians would say that I have been unconscionably Westernized. But if there is one thing I am not, it is a traitor!”

“I could be wrong,” said Napoleon quietly, after a pause.

“Unfortunately,” Illya spat, “for once, I am quite sure you aren't.”

“Would it help you to hear,” Napoleon asked cautiously, “my guess as to what it might be?”

“I already know,” said Illya, “as it can only be the last loose end from your line of questioning. Would this be where your morbid curiosity about Gorbunkov's preferences comes into play?”

Napoleon nodded. “I realize that the evidence is, at best, circumstantial. But is it so inconceivable to you that they might have grown closer in your very long absence?”

“I admit I don't recall seeing either with women, but I also never thought about it. I preferred my meals unregurgitated, you see.”

“What's the punishment for it here?” asked Napoleon softly. “Five years of hard labor, if I recall correctly?”

“Yes,” said Illya, with obvious astonishment. “Why do you know that?”

“Because I wondered,” said Napoleon, flushing, “whether it might have been a factor in your decision to join UNCLE.”

“It isn't legal in America either,” said Illya defensively, but his face had gone slightly red.

“No,” said Napoleon, “but in New York, at least, I believe the penalty is only three months, and unless I have been the victim of gross capitalist propaganda, there is a world of difference between an American prison and a Russian one.”

“As much as I would like to say otherwise, you have not,” said Illya. “And that, if you don't mind, is all I wish to say on the subject.”

“I understand,” said Napoleon. Now more than ever, he wanted to offer some physical form of reassurance, but if Illya had found this irritating before, now he was likely to throw punches. Instead, he asked, “Did you finish searching the glove compartment? Before we were, ah, distracted?”

“There was nothing of interest,” said Illya. “Just the owner's manual. Did you finish searching back here?”

“Not as such,” Napoleon admitted. “I think we'd better comb every inch of the car. They may have left some means of contacting them in a not-so-obvious place—”

He broke off, because Illya was frantically signaling to him to be quiet. His eyes were fixed on the window.

“I saw something move,” he said, through clenched teeth.

Napoleon instinctively reached for his Special, noting that Illya had, with catlike speed, already done the same. Then he, too, saw movement in the shadows. Slowly, two figures emerged from the clearing. As they came closer, Napoleon recognized one of them as Gorbunkov. They trudged through the snow with their hands in the air, as if in surrender.

“Illya,” said Napoleon, summoning all the reserves of his courage, “I want you to know that I love you, and that I will love you no matter what you decide.”

He braced himself for a tirade, but none came. “Thank you,” Illya whispered, his words barely audible.

Seconds later, the two figures knocked on the window. Illya opened the door, but he did not lower his weapon.

The man who could only be Dr. Vasin said something in Russian. Napoleon listened carefully, but he could only pick out the words “friend,” “clever,” and “hat.” Illya nodded. Without turning around, he said, “He says you are quite clever, but you should check the seams in your hat.”

Napoleon winced. “A listening device, I suppose, sewn in at the same time Gorbunkov took our communicators.”

Illya relayed this in Russian, and Dr. Vasin nodded in confirmation, before offering a longer reply. Illya's groan seemed to confirm Napoleon's impression of what he had said. Illya nodded again and repeated, “He says he did not expect you to figure it out so quickly, and had imagined that they would have to explain. Of course, he also did not expect to hear such sounds from us as he did.”

“The perils of eavesdropping,” said Napoleon. “One never knows what one might hear.”

Dr. Vasin nodded, having evidently understood that. As Illya repeated it, Napoleon wondered if the professor's command of English was comparable to his own Russian. Then Dr. Vasin launched into a longer response, too fast and convoluted for Napoleon to follow properly, but it sounded as though he were filling Illya in on the past however many years, in his own words. Illya replied in Russian without bothering to interpret, and so the conversation went, until Napoleon had quite given up trying to understand. Instead, he turned to Gorbunkov, who looked frightened, but nonetheless dared to hold his gaze. _Please,_ his expression seemed to be saying, _please make him understand._

_I can't,_ thought Napoleon. _You should never have put him in this position. I am not without sympathy for you, but my loyalty is to Illya, and only to Illya._

“He says,” said Illya at last, “that they became lovers nine years ago. An angry colleague threatened to reveal this after, on their mutual lack of recommendation, he was passed over for promotion. This is the other reason they decided that the official story should paint him as such a dramatically heroic martyr. It was mainly because, as you surmised, they knew I wouldn't believe it, but it was also to ensure that any potential allegations would reek of unpatriotic slander.” He paused, then added, “They are not seeking to defect. They only want to be left alone. They would be most grateful for safe passage into some strategically unimportant or officially neutral country, and they are more than willing to leave their papers to UNCLE. They also consider your testimony to be nearly as important as mine, in case Washington does not believe me so easily. Could you lie to your president?”

“I don't know,” said Napoleon honestly, “but in any case, I might not have to find out. What they've failed to consider in all of this is that while they were never on THRUSH's radar before, they might well be now. If we could find a way to speed that process along, that could be your way out.”

“You mean,” said Illya, “that if we were to deliberately attract THRUSH's attention and get them to pursue us, then I could say that Aleksei Pavlovich disappeared into the taiga to keep his research out of their hands, and technically it would not be a lie.”

“You'd be telling the truth,” said Napoleon encouragingly. “It's only the facts you'd be changing.”

The ensuing pause was long and tense. “I shall think about it,” Illya said finally, “after we are allowed to return to the inn.” He then turned back to Dr. Vasin to explain the proposed plan, and Dr. Vasin and Gorbunkov nodded uneasily.

Apart from Napoleon's brief check-in with Mr. Waverly, no one said a word during the two-hour helicopter flight. Once they were safely back at the inn, Illya sat down heavily on one of the beds. “If I were to tell you,” he said after a moment, “that I am in desperate need of your brand of comfort, what would you say to me?”

Napoleon smiled. “I wouldn't say anything.” He began to walk with purpose towards Illya, but then stopped. He crossed back to where he'd deposited his winter gear, picked up his hat, felt under the seams for the listening device, and then stomped on it. Then he turned back, sat down next to Illya, and kissed him deeply. Illya's response was both frenzied and immediate. He lay back on the bed and pulled Napoleon down with him, his legs locking around Napoleon's and his hand on the back of Napoleon's neck, unsubtly urging him to do anything but stop. Napoleon's mouth found Illya's neck and his hands found Illya's shirt. Illya obligingly raised his arms to allow Napoleon to remove it, then tugged at Napoleon's shirt.

Napoleon left a trail of kisses down Illya's chest, caressing his skin with both hands and trying his best to take it slow, but the way Illya was moving against him, that was soon going to be impossible. His hands found Illya's waist and shoved his pants downwards, and then he felt Illya respond in kind, grabbing at his ass. When they were both completely naked, he took Illya in his mouth and nearly choked as Illya's hips bucked forwards, but soon recovered. Even without the listening device, he mused, the sheer volume of Illya's responses must leave Drs. Vasin and Gorbunkov, ensconced in the room across the hall, with no illusions as to what they were doing.

“Napoleon!” Illya screamed, and then he came. Napoleon caressed Illya's thighs with one hand as he swallowed, and with his other hand he stroked himself to completion. He came with his face buried in Illya's chest and Illya's hands buried in his hair, massaging his scalp a bit too forcefully to be entirely pleasurable.

“I could have—” Illya started as he recovered, but Napoleon shook his head.

“Some other time, and I'm holding you to that,” he said. He crawled forward to embrace his partner, and Illya returned the embrace and held on tight.

“I love you,” Illya whispered into Napoleon's shoulder. “I think you know that, but I have to say it.”

Napoleon smiled. “I do know,” he said, running a hand through Illya's hair, “but thank you.”


End file.
